


It Just Sort of Happens

by earlgreytea68



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock: You bring me tea in the morning?<br/>Mrs. Hudson: Well, where'd you think it came from?<br/>Sherlock: I don’t know. I just thought it sort of happened.</p><p> </p><p>...It's a tea shop AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I went through my whole coffee shop AU phase, right? So you basically knew this was coming. 
> 
> I didn't feel capable of writing a coffee shop AU. The very bestest coffee shop AUs have this totally romantic way of writing about coffee. Like, it's a love story between two people and *coffee.* I don't feel that way about coffee, and I didn't feel capable of faking it. 
> 
> So instead I wrote a tea shop AU.

Harry had wanted to sell it. 

When John said he wanted to re-open it and run it, Harry said, “Jesus, John, are you _mad_? It’s some prime London real estate; let’s sell it and get rid of it and take the money.” 

_And spend it on alcohol_ , John had thought, watching Harry throw back wine like it was a shot. He didn’t think being flush was something that Harry needed at the moment; he thought it possible expendable income would be her enemy. 

“It’s all we’ve got left of Mum and Dad,” John said, instead of saying anything about the alcohol, because no one would ever say that John Watson wasn’t a coward of the highest order, at least when it came to emotional confrontations with his sister. 

Harry snorted and poured herself more wine. “It’s a dingy little tea shop, John. It’s not exactly a fine estate that they’ve left us. And I’ve hung onto it for two years, waiting for you to get back, just so you could say your proper good-bye. So go and say your proper good-bye and let’s be done with it, yeah?”

John bristled at her tone. “Charming,” he said. “Very respectful of their legacy.” 

Harry rolled her eyes. “It’s not a _legacy_ , John. It’s a money pit that they used to waste the rest of our inheritance. You’ve always been too sentimental for your own good. Isn’t it enough that I kept it for _two years_ without doing anything with it, all because you asked?”

“You could have run it,” John pointed out sourly. 

“I don’t want to run a tea shop, John! Christ, I never wanted to run their stupid tea shop.” 

“Well, I’m going to run it,” John announced calmly. 

Harry stared at him over a slightly sloshing wine glass. “ _Why_?”

Because he’d come home from war with a limp and an intermittent tremor in his hand, and he was never going to be a surgeon again. Which he wasn’t about to say out loud—he’d avoided saying it out loud so far because he wasn’t sure he could say it out loud without sounding petulant and self-pitying, and he was _not_. Instead he tried not to glare daggers at Harry and wondered why she couldn’t see that he needed something to do and that the tea shop was the only good idea he’d had. 

He said, simply, “I want to.”

“Well, I don’t want anything to do with it,” she said after a moment. “I hate that place, you know that.”

“Yes, I believe you’ve made that clear,” replied John drily. “I’ll buy you out.”

“With what money?” asked Harry bitterly into her glass of wine. 

“I’ll make it profitable.”

Harry made a skeptical noise. “I’d like to see you try, given that there’s a competing tea shop two doors down now.” 

***

There was a competing tea shop two doors down. Its name was Deduction Teas. It was an interesting name, and John didn’t quite know what to make of it. 

The place looked smart, sleek and modern, all glass and steel and uncomfortable chairs that said _you can sit but please not for too long, this is a business after all_. John stood in front of his parents’ tea shop watching the door of Deduction Teas and tried not to look too much like he was spying on the competition, but, well, he _was_. Business wasn’t bustling, but there was steady foot traffic back and forth. Everyone looked very grim. John had forgotten about how consciously _busy_ everyone in London always acted. 

He took a deep breath, turned away from Deduction Teas, and slid his key in the door of Watson’s Tea Room, as the cheerful hand-painted sign read in curling letters that John’s mother had always thought were reminiscent of steam rising from a teacup (although no one else had ever seen that). He turned the alarm off, relieved when it was the same code it had been before he’d gone away. Harry hadn’t mentioned the alarm. Harry had probably forgotten all about it. John wondered at Harry paying to keep it turned on and decided she must not have noticed. He didn’t think Harry was especially sharp these days. 

He looked around the shop. There was two years of dust settled over everything, but even without that it all seemed threadbare and desperate. Who was he kidding? He thought of Deduction Teas two doors down, glowing with congratulatory profitability. Harry was right: He was being an idiot. 

But John spent several hours cleaning, and it was the first afternoon he’d spent since being shot when he didn’t have to fight the impulse to just let himself be depressed, the first afternoon when living felt easier than not living, and he’d made a small dent in the mess and thought, sod it, he had to do this. He had no other options. 

***

John spent money he didn’t have to spruce up the tea shop. Even if Deduction Teas hadn’t been so close, he would have ordered the plush, comfy armchairs for the seating, but he liked the idea of being the exact opposite of Deduction Teas. He was never going to beat them at their own game by copying them, so surely it was better to set up as a conscious juxtaposition. 

He wished he was brave enough to go over there and scope out their menu, but instead he spied from the safety of his own tea shop, clicking over their website closely. It was an odd website, crowded with irrelevancies, trivia about the chemical make-up of the soils that different teas liked best, the minute differences in the stains left behind by each type of tea, and a chilling little aside about which type of tea was best to disguise the taste of cyanide. But smothered by all of this other stuff was the menu. The selection was small, although high-quality, but it wasn’t that diverse. John made notes to be sure to branch from black and the couple of green teas at Deduction Teas into rooibos and some chai. Deduction Teas served coffee, apparently, although the coffee menu was squeezed into a corner of the website that John really had to hunt for. John was rubbish at making fancy coffees with foam, but he thought he could teach himself to handle basic coffee drinks and added that to his menu. And, because Deduction Teas didn’t offer it at all, he added hot chocolate for good measure. 

The food menu was more of a challenge. Deduction Teas served nothing but biscuits. A wide variety of biscuits, to be sure, but that was it. John thought it would behoove him to offer sandwiches. Easy sandwiches. Sandwiches he could put together with little effort. And biscuits. But he would have to learn how to bake for that because he couldn’t afford to hire someone to bake for him. 

He wondered if Deduction Teas hired someone to bake the biscuits. Or if they had a baker on staff. They probably had _staff_. 

John looked darkly at Deduction Teas’ odd website and hated it. Watson’s didn’t even _have_ one. It was yet another thing he was probably going to have to do, wasn’t it? 

There were some days when John had the fleeting thought that Harry was right about the insanity of this venture he’d embarked on. But, truthfully, his days flew by. He fell into bed exhausted and slept free of nightmares, for the most part, and he would put up with anything that gave him that much relief. 

***

Opening day for Watson’s. John bought balloons on a whim and tied them outside the door. He arranged all of the biscuits and started the first pots of coffee and made sure that the kettles were set to boiling for tea orders. He wondered if a single person would even walk in the door all day, or if they would just keep going to their regular place by force of habit. 

John had brought a book with him, a mystery novel, and he had just settled into an armchair with it when the door opened and a customer poked his head in cautiously. 

“Are you open?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Yes!” John exclaimed, with possibly too much enthusiasm, and jumped up to race behind the counter. 

The customer regarded the menu on the wall and said, carefully, “Can I have the jasmine green tea?”

“Absolutely,” John said jovially. “Coming right up.”

The man breathed a sigh of relief at this. 

John tried not to look surprised at the reaction. Apparently this man was desperate for his cup of tea. 

“I’m cutting back on caffeine,” the man explained, when John handed the tea to him. 

“Yeah,” John said with a smile. “I understand.” 

“I’ll totally be able to make it through the day without coffee,” the man continued as he gave John the money he was owed. 

John tried not to sound quizzical as he said, “I’m sure you will.”

“Thank you so much for this,” the man said earnestly, and then hurried out of the shop. 

Odd first customer, John thought, looking after him, but he’d take it anyways. 

***

The customers kept coming. John’s first few days were actually…a success. John hated to think of them that way, because he was cautious about jinxing it, but by the end of his first week in business he was running his account books looked promising and was getting better at owning the store. He wasn’t very quick, and sometimes lines built up, and he felt dreadfully slow as he dealt with change, but the customers were all polite to a fault, and John didn’t understand where dealing with the public got such a bad reputation. All of his customers actually behaved as if he was doing them the world’s most enormous favor in handing them a cup of coffee or a tea or a chocolate biscuit. They all keep ooh-ing and aah-ing over being offered _choices_. John didn’t really know what to make of all of it, but he didn’t quarrel with paying customers. 

On Friday afternoon, John was finishing up the cleaning, feeling that satisfied exhaustion that he’d noticed accompanied the end of a day at the tea shop. He liked being that tired at the end of the day, it felt good. The door jangled with a customer, and technically it was past closing, but John hadn’t locked the door yet so he supposed it was his own fault. Anyways, one last customer was simply one last bit of profit. 

“Hello,” he said, smiling brightly to the man who walked in. He was dressed in a dramatic wool coat even though it was a decently warm day outside, and he had dramatic, perfectly coiffed dark curls. John, next to him, felt smudged with the day’s exertions. This man looked as if he’d stepped out of a painting entitled _Completely Put-Together and Superior to You_. 

The man narrowed his eyes at John, taking him in in one sweeping glance, and John felt unaccountably exposed by this, which was silly. 

“Can I help you?” John asked pleasantly. 

The man drew to a halt in front of the counter and kept looking. Then he said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John started. “What?” 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man repeated impatiently. 

John stared at him, wondering if he knew him, _how_ he knew him, why he would suddenly walk into his shop after closing _knowing_ things about him. “I don’t…”

“You’ve clearly just been invalided home from military service, and I’ve narrowed it down to Afghanistan or Iraq. Don’t pretend that I am incorrect. And I will have tea. Green tea.”

“Right,” John said, even though he was disinclined to make this man tea. “Who told you I was just back from military service?” he asked as he made the tea. 

“Are these currant scones?” the man inquired, peering into the pastry case. 

“Yes,” John confirmed. “End of the day, so you can have it for free, if you want.” 

“I _despise_ currant scones,” the man spat out. 

“Okay, then you don’t have to have one,” John said, a trifle irritably, and handed the man his green tea. 

“Also, green tea disagrees with me,” the man informed him, apparently furious. 

John blinked. “You _asked_ for green tea.”

“Don’t you know better than to give customers what they _ask_ for?” the man demanded in disgust and threw a twenty-quid note on the counter. 

John blinked at it. “You don’t owe nearly that—”

The door jangled shut, the man having stalked out. 

John shook his head a bit and walked over and locked the door and thought that it served him right for not strictly adhering to operating hours. 

***

In the second week, John began to feel comfortable enough with people to understand them to be regulars. He learned little bits and pieces about their lives and inquired after them, and the smiles they sent him got broader, and John felt like he settled just that little more.

On Wednesday of the second week, the mysterious man arrived again, after closing again. John really had to get better at closing up on time.

“You overpaid the last time,” John said, and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. “By a lot.”

The man stared at the envelope. “Did you set that aside for me?”

“Of course.” The man regarded him. He had very disconcerting eyes, an odd color John couldn’t place but, even worse, they were so sharp. John thought of the man asking about Afghanistan or Iraq and felt like, if he looked long enough, he’d be able to uncover everything about John, right down to his hated middle name. So John heard himself saying, defensively, “I won’t take charity.”

The man lifted his eyebrows but pocketed the envelope without comment and said, “Earl Grey, please.”

John didn’t know why he didn’t just say, “We’re closed.” Yes, he would take every sale he could get, but this man made him uncomfortable, creeping under his skin this way, just by standing there and watching like that. “What?” John asked, finally unable to stand the silence any longer, glancing over his shoulder as he scooped tea leaves.

“Your limp is psychosomatic, you know,” said the man.

John bristled, straightened, turned to him. “What,” he said flatly.

The man looked unconcerned. “Isn’t that what your therapist says?”

“My therapist?”

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist.”

“Have you been talking to her?” John asked, trying to keep his voice even when he was furious.

“Interesting,” the man mused.

“What,” John snapped.

“You don’t trust your therapist. Classic trust issues.” The man wrapped his posh accent around the words, clipping out the hard consonants.

John turned and poured out the Earl Grey tea he had made.

The man made a sound of protest. “I was going to drink that!”

“You think I’m going to serve you after that?” John demanded.

“So I deduced some things about you, they were only the most obvious things. I haven’t got anywhere close to why you would open up a bloody tea shop when you’re clearly inept at it—”

“Inept?” repeated John, and then marched over to the door and yanked it open. “Out, out, out, out, out,” was what he commanded, between his teeth.

But the man just stood by the counter, hands deep in his pockets.

John looked at him. “Out,” he demanded.

“You forgot your cane,” said the man.

John blinked, startled, and realized that he had, that he’d left it behind the counter when he’d marched over to the door. He looked down around him, as if expecting himself to plummet to the floor.

The man swept out the door.

***

John spent all of Thursday out-of-sorts and experimenting with how long he could go without his cane. He made sure to close up exactly on time, although the man didn’t come, so he felt that he needn’t have bothered.

He told himself he was not at all disappointed that the man hadn’t come.


	2. Chapter 2

The strange man came back on Friday, trying the door and finding it locked. He then looked through the glass at John with the world’s most pathetic expression on his face.

Manipulative bastard, John thought, and tugged the door open just enough to say to him, “We have operating hours.”

“Traditionally you ignore your operating hours,” the man pointed out.

Which was true, and John hated that he couldn’t deny it. “Tonight I’m not ignoring them. I’ve already cleaned everything, I’m not going to make you tea.”

“Dinner?” suggested the man.

John hesitated, sure he was misunderstanding what was happening here. “I’m not going to make you dinner, either,” he said slowly.

“Judging by your pastries, that’s no loss on my part,” said the man, but he smiled. John thought it was the first time he’d seen him smile, and he told himself not to get distracted by it.

John told himself that, actually, what the man had said was an insult.

Then the man turned away, walking swiftly, and John cursed and pulled the door shut, making sure it was locked behind him, before rushing to catch up.

The man gave him a sidelong look. “You forgot your cane again.”

John was busy wondering how he had ended up out here in the first place. He hadn’t intended to follow the man. “We can’t go to dinner.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, readily enough.

John said, sure he’d misheard, “What is it?”

“Sher-lock.” The man overenunciated it slowly.

“Oh,” John said. “Okay.”

“And what is your first name, Mr. Watson?”

“How do you know my last name is Watson?” John asked suspiciously.

“It’s the name of your shop.”

“Maybe I bought it and didn’t want to change the name.”

“Why? Because of the enormous goodwill built up in the name of ‘Watson’s Tea Shop’?” drawled Sherlock.

John bristled. “My parents—” he began hotly.

“Yes. Thought as much. So, Mr. Watson, your first name?” Sherlock cast him a knowing smirk as they walked.

John cursed himself and said, “John. My parents lacked your parents’ flair.”

Sherlock actually laughed. He had a surprisingly joyful laugh. On first glance, he seemed so very stolid and imposing in his expensive coat with his ridiculous good looks, Now that John had had several conversations with him, he seemed younger than John had supposed, less stiff and formal, like the laugh was the scratch of a surface to give John a glimpse of what was underneath.

“Here we are,” Sherlock said, entering a restaurant.

John spent a moment on the pavement, muttering under his breath, “What in bloody hell are you doing, John Watson?” and then he stepped forward and into the restaurant after Sherlock because he’d apparently lost his mind.

“Sherlock,” someone was greeting him effusively, and then looked beyond Sherlock to John, his eyes lighting up. “Oh!” he said in delight, and John actually looked over his shoulder, thinking someone else must be provoking such a reaction out of him. “You can have the front table.” Sherlock sat and the man ushered John in after him. “I’ll bring a candle over for you and your date. More romantic.” The man winked at John.

“I’m not his date,” John said, bewildered, and then looked at Sherlock, wondering.

“Angelo,” Sherlock said, regarding his menu. “Owes me a favor.”

“A favor? For what? What do you do?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to look across at him for a moment, and then he said, “Can I see your phone?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“There are those trust issues again,” remarked Sherlock calmly and held out his hand.

John, feeling self-conscious, dug out his phone and handed it over, and then said, “Wait. Not wanting to give your phone to a stranger is not an indication of ‘trust issues.’”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock said absently, studying the phone from every angle. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” Sherlock handed the phone back.

“What?” said John blankly.

“You seem to think we’re strangers, so I’m telling you about myself.”

“I don’t—” Angelo showed up with a candle and took their order. John ordered first, and then Sherlock ordered nothing at all. “Wait,” John said, when Angelo had walked away, “I thought we were having dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said.

“Then why are we having dinner?”

“You’re hungry,” Sherlock replied, simply.

He was, but how did Sherlock know that? “I don’t ‘think’ we’re strangers, we are strangers,” said John.

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock said. “Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?” asked John, fascinated almost against his will.

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John was bewildered. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

“When I met you for the first time,” said Sherlock, “I said, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ You looked surprised.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Psychosomatic limp, you forget about it when you’re distracted. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John blinked, astonished.

But Sherlock wasn’t finished. “Then there’s your brother.”

“Hmm?” John asked, trying to make the mental leap with him.

“Your phone. It’s expensive, email enabled, MP3 player, but your tea shop is shabby, done on the cheap—you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. Scratches on it. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving,” John remembered, turning the phone over to look at it. _Harry Watson From Clara xxx_

“Harry Watson,” Sherlock went on. “Clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re always alone in your tea shop except for customers. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently; this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then—six months on he’s just given it away? If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do: sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch. But he’s never around the tea shop. That says you’ve got problems, the two of you. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

John blinked. “How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock smiled, unable to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them. So, you see? You were right.”

John felt dazed. “I was right? Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock delivered it with grand finality, practically beaming.

John stared at him for one long moment, trying to process everything that had just happened. “That…was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked at him, the beaming look fading off his face. He looked startled. For a long moment of silence, he just stared across at John, and John wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say, if he should take it back. He hadn’t meant to offend, he’d meant to praise him.

“Do you think so?” Sherlock said, eventually.

John couldn’t believe he was being asked that. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite…” John could come up with no other word for it. “Extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock remarked, seeming to regain his footing.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.” Sherlock smiled a bit.

John laughed, amused, and then Angelo arrived with John’s food. He nudged at the candle again and sent them knowing looks, as if trying to remind them that they were on a date. John wondered how he could possibly make this look any more like a date than it already obviously did: climb into Sherlock’s lap and start snogging him, he supposed.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, after John had taken a few bites.

“Harry and me don’t get on, never have,” John said, as he ate. “Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.”

Sherlock looked eminently pleased. “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

John reached for his water and relished the next thing he was going to say, trying not to grin too much. “And Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Sherlock went still, his face rippling into displeasure with himself. “Harry’s your sister.”

“Have you been spying on me in your capacity as a consulting detective?”

“Sister,” Sherlock said again, and drummed his fingers on the table and looked out the window.

“So you’re a consulting detective,” John said around his food. “What are you doing hanging around my tea shop? One of my regulars isn’t a murderer or anything, are they?” 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “One of your ‘regulars’? You’ve been in business barely two weeks. You’ve hardly ‘regulars.’”

“Well, I have people who come every day,” John said defensively. “So they’re my regulars. And hang on, how do you know exactly how long I’ve been in business? Did someone hire you to investigate me?” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow was still cocked at him. “There are your trust issues again.” 

“I notice you haven’t answered the question.” 

“No one’s hired me to investigate you, nor are any of your customers under suspicion for murder. You should come home with me.” 

John blinked, startled. “I’m sorry, I should what?” 

“Come home with me. It would make some things clear.” 

John tried to process this. “Wait, _is_ this a date?” 

“What were you before you were a tea shop owner?” 

“A doctor,” John answered dazedly, automatically, too distracted by everything else to realize he’d answered the question. “You think I’m just going to come home with you?” 

“A doctor. Of course. Invalided home. Psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Also probably psychosomatic.” 

John swallowed thickly and forced himself away from self-pity into indignation. “There was nerve damage.” 

“Where were you shot?” 

“Shoulder,” John answered, and then wondered why he kept answering questions. 

“I knew it,” said Sherlock. 

“No, you didn’t,” John said in exasperation. 

Sherlock smiled at him, then stood. “Come and see where I live.” 

“Don’t we have to pay?” asked John in bewilderment. 

“I told you: Angelo owes me a favor. I cleared him from a murder charge once.” 

John was impressed. “Did you really?” 

“By getting him imprisoned for burglary instead.” 

***

John had no idea how he came to be following Sherlock Holmes but he was. At least Sherlock was heading back toward the tea shop and had stopped babbling about John going back to his house. Because John was _absolutely not_ going to go home with this madman, no matter how fit he was. 

Sherlock paused in front of Deduction Teas, and then said, “And here we are.” 

John glanced at the black and white sign and said, “No, I’m the next one over.” 

“No, this is where I live,” Sherlock said. 

The penny dropped. “ _Oh_. So this is why you know everything about my tea shop. It’s your neighborhood.” 

“One way of putting it,” Sherlock said enigmatically, opening the door beside Deduction Teas that would lead to the flats above. 

“What does that—”

“Oh, hello, Sherlock dear!” 

John hadn’t even realized he’d followed Sherlock inside until the older woman’s head popped out of her first floor flat. What was he _doing_? 

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock responded. “This is Dr. Watson. New flatmate.” 

John looked at him, startled into speechlessness. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled benevolently and said, “Nice to meet you, dear,” and closed her door. 

Sherlock was climbing the stairs as if nothing had happened. 

“Sherlock,” John hissed, following him. “What are you on about? I’m not your _flatmate_.” 

“Aren’t you looking for cheap accommodations closer to the tea shop?” Sherlock returned mildly. 

“Well, yes, but—how did you know that?” 

Sherlock opened a door that apparently led to his flat, and there was a gray-haired man sitting comfortably at home on the sofa. Sherlock’s current flatmate? John didn’t know what to make of anything that was going on. 

Sherlock scowled and said, “What are you doing here? You can’t just let yourself into my flat.” 

“Drugs bust,” the man said casually. 

Sherlock’s scowl deepened. “I am _clean_.” 

“Is your flat?” asked the man, still casual. 

“I don’t even _smoke_ anymore,” Sherlock complained. 

John felt uncomfortably out of place. “Should I come back—”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, glaring at the man on the sofa. “Stay. Lestrade was just leaving.” 

“Actually I _was_ just leaving, but I thought you might want to tag along. Fourth serial suicide was called in.” 

“And you broke into my flat instead of ringing me?” Sherlock demanded. 

“I rang you. You don’t seem to be paying attention to your mobile at the moment.” The man apparently called Lestrade cast an obviously meaningful look toward John. 

Sherlock actually flushed, then snapped, “What’s different about this one? You wouldn’t have tried to get in touch with me for just anything.” 

“This time there’s a note,” Lestrade said. 

There was a pregnant pause. 

Then Sherlock said loftily, “Well, I _suppose_ I can spare the time. Dr. Watson can come along to assist me in the examination of the body.” 

“What?” said John, startled. 

“You can’t just—” began Lestrade. 

“You know Anderson won’t work with me, and he’s an army doctor.” Sherlock indicated John. 

“Hang on,” said John. “Don’t I get a say in this?” 

“Don’t you want to have a bit of excitement?” Sherlock asked, practically bouncing up and down like a little boy. 

Yes. Yes, he definitely did. But he didn’t want to admit that investigating some kind of murder sounded a bit exciting, because that was something a crazy person would say. So he just said, awkwardly, “Running a tea shop is exciting.” 

“You run a tea shop?” said Lestrade.

“That’s enough,” Sherlock snapped at him. 

“No, no, this is great. You’re going to run a tea shop with him by day, solve crimes with him by night, is that it?” 

John felt ever more confused. “I’m not going to run a tea shop with him…What?” 

“Well, Deduction Teas, of course,” said Lestrade. 

John stared at Sherlock. And then he pressed his mouth together. “Hang on, you own Deduction Teas?” 

“No,” Sherlock said sullenly. And then, “My brother owns it.” When John just continued to stare at him, he continued, “He thinks it’s good for me to have a hobby that’s not solving crimes.” 

“And taking drugs,” added Lestrade pointedly. 

John continued to stare at Sherlock, then he looked at Lestrade. “Could we maybe have a moment?” 

“Sure thing,” Lestrade said cheerfully, as if there was nothing unusual about this situation at all. 

John waited until he had left, then looked at Sherlock. “So you operate Deduction Teas.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re looking for a flatmate.” 

“Yes.” 

“And someone to solve crimes with on the side.” 

“Yes.”

“And you thought, ‘Oh, that bloke who works at Watson’s, he’d be the right man for the job’?” 

Sherlock looked at him intently and said, with obvious honesty, “Yes.” 

John felt a little staggered by that. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so open about it. And it made no _sense_. “I don’t…Why?” 

Sherlock smiled then. “Why don’t you come look at a dead body with me, and we’ll go from there?” 

And it was totally and utterly insane. But it was how the rest of John’s life started.

 

THE END.


End file.
